


Mark of Loki

by Outburst



Category: Loki - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Morning Sex, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roughness, Scarf Kink, Suit Kink, Sweet/Hot, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outburst/pseuds/Outburst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He ruled me, owned me completely. I gave myself up to him in those moments. I used my body to pray for his favor. Seemed like an excellent idea at the time. Sometimes a girl just needs to be torn apart. Who better than a god?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of three of a fic that slowly evolved over the course of a year. Bit late for the Christmas season (again), but it didn't want to wait any longer. The narrator remains nameless and featureless (more or less), so this is a hybrid of OFC and Reader. The next two parts will be posted (as chapters) over the course of the week.
> 
> Enjoy!

I have a confession.  


Some people love Summer – all that sun and warmth is a great excuse to show off skin. Sure, who doesn't love an adorable swimsuit, or enjoying a fruity umbrella drink while oogling manflesh at the beach? How could one admit that those collar-exposing, breezy linen shirts and dangerously low waistbands don't have their merits?  


But I love Winter – not just for the fat, lazy snowflake days and shameless warming of cold feet against a lover's flesh. Not even for the twinkling lights in the trees and wrapped around lamp posts lining the streets and avenues. The unapologetic way the window displays try to top one another, or the Christmas music floating on the air wherever you go still fall down on the list. To me, Winter means parties. Christmas parties, office parties, charity events, engagement parties, New Years parties... Personally, playing dress up is fun and being surrounded by revelry has its own joys, but none of these common excitements are the main fascination for me.  


I have a secret.  


Parties mean men in suits. There is a search. A chase even. One must sift through the many suits that wear the men. Shoulders too boxy, sleeves too long, grandfather pleats, pant hems crushed under heels or flashing ankles with tacky socks, buttons on collars, terrible ties, creases...the offenses are many.  


Boys, if you learn one thing about the seduction of women, it is this: a well-tailored suit on a groomed man has the equivalent effect on a woman as sexy lingerie has on a man. There is power in a man's silhouette; you may take in the curve of my breast and hips, the line of my neck, the gown clinging to thighs and backside – I raise you the dart of my eyes to the seemingly insignificant tapering from your underarms to waist. I will burn you with the gaze slipping down your chest, using that slim tie as a guide (how hard would you let me pull on it?) to the apex of your thighs, wondering what you answered when the tailor asked you which way you prefer to hang. Please, I would pray to any god who who would listen, let the sorcerers of thread and marking chalk make it so those trousers make my hands itch to touch. I want to trace the shadow of your spine from between the shoulders to the curve of your ass. Let me see the way a white shirt or black jacket and the right pair of trousers can meld with form so perfectly, and yet so subtly, that I know your body.  


Take me. I'm yours. Such a simple thing.  


Suit combinations are my porn. I'll put on the dress, the makeup, fight my hair into flattering shapes, and walk on stilts; these are my camouflage as I walk through the finely-attired crowds, eyes searching and hungry to take their pleasure. The excitement from the flick of fingers over a jacket button before a man takes his seat makes me squeeze my thighs together. All the small movements - throwing an ankle over a knee, slipping an index finger under a collar, the tiny rise and fall of a hip to adjust one's self – all fuel my voyeuristic fantasies.  


The night these eyes found the Feast of All Feasts, Answerer of the Darkest Prayers, was brisk and wet. The rain storm had been short, but torrential. The season was in the early weeks yet; I hadn't expected much from the cocktail party at one of my favorite haunts and was quite disappointed. Still, as I walked home feeling the chill air fill the lungs and beat at my wine haze, there were quiet strains of Christmas music in the air to lift me up. I love that feeling. The mix of childhood nostalgia and beautiful music holds a sort of magic.  


So as my heels clicked on the damp pavement, hands warm inside a long wool coat and heart bolstered by wine and Christmas, my eyes glossed over the world around me. Said eyes, trained as well as they are, locked on to a target, but the brain took a moment to know why they lingered over the tall man waiting patiently at the crosswalk. I believe in the power I mentioned before, the sort that lies in a man's silhouette, and this one was dripping in the stuff. His coat was a fine style, dark like his long, smoothed back hair. Buttoned, it looked like a lover hugging him around the waist with her dress wisping around his legs in the wind. If I were naked, would he promise to wear me so well?  


The streetlight shone off the silk of the scarf peeking from between coat and shirt collar, bringing my sight to strong shoulders. He turned his head, checking the oncoming traffic, and gave me the view of his profile. The impatient furrow to the brow and purse of lips could not take away the appeal of a high-set cheekbone. A slight clench of the jaw brought an urge to trace the fluid line between them; the parts united was impossible to not stare at.  


Something about the casual intensity coming from him was like a magnet. Maybe the added draw was the confident set to his shoulders and spine, or how the contrast between tamed dark hair and pale skin made the color of his eyes shine with clear purpose. The overall package gave him an air of regality.  


My few seconds of indulgence had led me to adjust the trajectory of my path towards him; why shouldn't I try my luck, after all? I could admire and lust for another minute at the very least.  
I stood slightly behind and to the side; heels and wet cement do not mix, and I was not about to risk my neck tottering close to the curb. Not to mention there was a rather large puddle in the gutter, and no doubt some idiot in a hurry would just love to barrel through it—  


“NO!”  


Perhaps my brain had registered said idiot further up the street. All I recall is how slow time seemed to go in those few fateful seconds, my gut-wrenching horror just feet before the car's front tire barreled through the puddle. The prospect of such a beautiful suit and man being ruined by the filthy street water was unthinkable. Abhorrent. A tragedy too great for my heart to bear that I managed to throw my body in front of his and shove him away from the street enough to let the freezing wave splash against my back instead.  


My hands where clenched fists on his lapels, crumpling silk and another expensive fabric blend. The initial shock of the water, and my own bold action, left no air in my lungs. I don't believe I breathed for a full minute. That may have also been partially his fault - the unexpected closeness we shared, and the way his eyes stripped me bare after the surprise left them had me rooted to the concrete. This was unusual. I was no stranger to sharing personal space with a man, even unexpectedly. Why did I feel like he was staring into my soul and squeezing it?  


A fat drip of cold water fell against my neck and slid down my back, effectively jump starting the brain.  


“Are you all right?” I asked, and turned my gaze from those damn eyes to scowl at the long gone car. “I can't believe that... _guh!_ ”  


I wanted to murder the driver for my own sake at that point. My body shivered as the water seeping into my coat started reaching skin. The backs of my legs were drenched. But his hands radiated warmth, _my god_ his hands were on my hips! We must have made quite the tawdry romantic book cover together, me clinging and he holding.  


“You prove to be a fair shield, it seems.”  


_Why?_ The question was woven between the words and amusement.  


“Good. No need for the both of us be soaking wet.” I grinned. As if my intentions could be pure! “I'd hate to see such a nice suit ruined.”  


By water, at least. I could certainly stomach popping buttons while clawing the ensemble off. The traffic lights and head lamps of the cars passing made the night dance over his face; there was a wickedness in his smirk that echoed my thoughts. The way he slid one of those hands up my back had me wishing the dress had buttons to pop, but I could settle for whatever sorcery he used to dry my clothes.  


I didn't know what he was then. I thought it was the wine taking advantage of my distraction for a second wind. I thought it was the undiluted want in me for those blue-green eyes working out the equation of my existence relative to my actions to equal more than twenty seconds of our bodies touching.  


The crosswalk light changed. The through traffic eased to a stop. He let go. His chest pressed against my thumbnails for a brief moment and my fingers eased off as I moved aside. Something caught on the cocktail ring I wore and tangled in my hand the more distance was put between us. His scarf! I managed to save the free end before it fluttered to the ground.  


“Wait!” I called to him and held out the silk. “Your scarf! It must have snagged on my ring.”  


The man half turned, his steps taking him into the street. His gaze was uninterested in the scarf and settled on me with a cheeky grin.  


“Keep it.”  


Like it was a token for one's champion. I could deal with that. It was a rather fine scarf.  


“What's your name?” I called out to him again, louder to cover the increasing distance. I heard him laugh, saw his teeth flash in the green GO light.  


“You will know my name soon enough.”  


It sounded like a promise, like a dirty promise to be made in the dark, and once I could no longer see his back that promise saw me to the single room apartment I called home.  


The mundane actions of slipping from my curiously dry coat and kicking off my heels did nothing to take my mind off of him. The sweet relief my foot muscles took in being free only accentuated the new ache. Everything did; my cool hands peeling the stockings off in long, slow sweeps, unzipping the cocktail dress and feeling the edges graze my skin as it was shed, the glorious release of pressure after unhooking and discarding my bra. I kept the scarf on through all of this, the lingering smell of him surrounding me. The silk was cold and brushed deliciously sharp over my nipples and breasts.  


I sighed, stretched my back and neck to feel my vertebrae pop and make the scarf rub against me. My hand brought the watery material between breasts, over neck, chin, and cheek to crumple against my nose. I breathed deep. He smelled like the first frost of the season, man, leather, and metal.  


Trying to sleep would have been a fools errand with the state I was in. Without hesitation, I thumbed off my panties and dropped into bed. Sleep could wait, and oh what a sleep it would be after satisfying myself to exhaustion.  


My hands glided over the silk scarf, palms were tickled by the raised nubs of my nipples, and I felt the coolness fought off by the rising heat of my body. The fringe of the scarf teased the apex of my thighs. I raised one knee, making the fringe slip down and touch me intimately. I cupped myself through the material, sliding fingers back and forth, and exhaled, sharp and needy.  


There would be no fooling around, no more teasing. I reached for the nightstand drawer, flicked my favorite toy on, and pressed it against my mons. The quivering pleasure pulled the air from my lungs in a short hiss. I turned onto my stomach, hand and toy clutched between my thighs, rocking against them, spreading the excess slickness. The sheets underneath my lips moistened with my breath. Inch by inch, I filled myself. Slow and steady until the pace built up naturally. An easy, fluid motion allowed a perfect foundation for soothing the ache he had infused; when was the last encounter that had left me so wet?  


_You will know my name soon enough._  


I swear I could hear his voice whispering in my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed my forehead to the mattress and scraped at the bedspread, hips grinding against my hand in search of more. What was it about him that had me wanting to curl up in the manic edge to his words and destroy the bed frame? Remembering the mans smirk, that dark promise ringing in my ears, my imagination may or may not have spun out of my control.  


_Look how desperately you touch yourself. Is this buffet of lust all for me? Such a feast for the senses..._  


His salacious voice controlled my hand, touching thighs and abdomen, the valley between breasts and over the stiff summits.  


_I must admit the view is spectacular from all angles. But how well can you really hope to enthrall me?_  


The ache held on, and no matter how deep or hard I plundered, it merely became stronger.  


“Please...” My begging was strained. I bit at the sheets, spread my legs wide, and rutted against the heel of my hand while fingers pressed and pulled at the toy inside me.  


_Please what?_  


Touch me. Take me. Give me the release I so desperately needed.  


_Not just yet. You make such a pretty picture with your face pressed into the bed and ass high, the most beautiful offering there ever was._  


I burned with need, strained every muscle, and was so close. Every thrust brought me to a swell, but ebbed just the slightest, keeping me from a glorious finish. What would he feel like against me, in me? I itched to grip that hair between my fingers, lose my breath in his mouth, to ride him hard enough to milk everything he could give me.  


_I could slip inside you so easily, could I not? You weep at the mere though of my hands tight on your hips as mine punish you with every thrust. Or perhaps you need me to claim your throat, make you wait while I take my pleasure at leisure? Oh yes, the depravity of your mind is a titillating marvel._  


“I want it. I _want_ it!”  


_Want what?_  


“I want to be filled, fucked, ruined.” I couldn't take it anymore. Whatever he wanted, he could have.  


“I want you.”  


_Your King, your god?_  


“Yes!”  


He ruled me, owned me completely. I gave myself up to him in those moments. I used my body to pray for his favor. Seemed like an excellent idea at the time. Sometimes a girl just needs to be torn apart. Who better than a god?  


_Show me._  


The scent of him, that frost and tang of metal, invaded me. I could see him in my minds eye, almost feel his hand covering mine – true or not, I shifted to my knees, felt him fuck me hard and raw with the toy, using all the strength in his arm. The lick of a tongue collecting the sweat from the small of my back left a hot streak; teeth bit deep into the meat of my shoulder. My throat was sore from the pitch of my keening.  


_Ah –_ yes, _that's it! Come for me. Your King commands you._  


Red and white streaked and crackled behind my eyelids as I came, and I sobbed with the overwhelming release of pleasure and gratitude. I rode my hand until the waves ebbed away and I could finally breathe free of the crushing need. Carefully, I slipped the toy out, switched it off, and gave it a boneless toss to the end of the bed.  


Rolling onto my back took more energy than anticipated, and I then stared into the shadows haunting the ceiling for some time. The sweat on my skin kept the scarf stuck to me, and slowly cooled. Sleep overtook me quickly. 

Of course the want never left me completely. It clung to me like the scarf: light, barely felt, but definitely there. I cursed myself for not pushing harder to know his name, where he was from, where I might see him again. Had I imagined everything? Was my mind slipping into dangerous territory?  


The doubts stopped when I found the mark during my morning shower. No amount of scrubbing dulled or cleaned the dark green rune from the inside of my left thigh. There were no raised ridges or pain; this was not the result of a spontaneous tattoo session during a drunken black out.  


His voice came back one last time, full of self-satisfaction and the surety of power:  


_Every caress, every sigh, every shiver that courses through you will not go unnoticed. Play as you wish, but know that you do so in my name only. Please me well, mortal._  


I smirked and stroked the mark thinking, _As my King commands._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I was playing a dangerous game, but he had left a weapon on the floor for me: an invitation. No doubt he thought he could tug on the strings attached to this sparring weapon whenever he wanted, but strings have two ends._

I prayed every night. Even after I saw the news, saw his face and heard his name drop from every pair of lips with fear and anger. The fear crept up my neck too, yes, but the want was still there. He had marked me for a reason. So I would kneel and pray, using my body as the altar.

Sometimes I didn't need to go that far. I prayed without knowing, and he heard me.

The parties were fantastic that year, and the next, filled with people trying to block out reality. For me, the hunting was excellent; perhaps the threat of mortality caused the men of the world to rethink their mating tactics. I left each gala titillated, and even lucky the few times I found perfect specimens to stand in for my fearsome King.

_Spare this one,_ I prayed in the rumpled sheets, my church. _The world already has too few with good taste._

Snow fell, silent and slow, the night he came to me. I was at a party of course, one of my favorites of the season, aglow with wine and the happiness that comes from my favorite time of year. Yes, Christmas cheer was in the air and heavy in the glasses as someone most certainly had spiked the punch just because they could. There was a vocalist and pianist with a string quartet, I remember, providing the musical entertainment that night. The seasonal music always strikes a chord in me (no pun intended), and combined with the alcohol, I was an easy target. There was something so achingly beautiful, so haunting, about the music and the tinsel and the decorated trees and the candlelight and the snow falling outside the arched windows and...I smiled, I pressed my lips together, and I offered him that small part of myself that loved the wonder and happiness of the moment. I stood with the other motionless, quiet guests, grip slack around a glass goblet, listening. We all stood together, listening to the wordless vocals and the gentle power in the rise and fall of the accompaniment, just feeling as humans are want to do.

My prayer was simple. No pleading, no begging, no asking. Just a simple sharing of perfect contentment.

And then he was there at my side, the arm of his suit brushing against my arm. The smell of Winter and leather gave him away. I had to close my eyes, let the back of my hand rest lightly against his, and breathe. He stood with me, said nothing even when the song was over and I swiped at the tear tracks on my face while the others clapped. He moved only when I laughed (a silly laugh for myself, for the fullness in my heart, I don't know), and when he touched my cheek with the barest glance to dry the tears, I looked him in the eyes and lost all sense. ...If there was any left to begin with, at least.

I laughed again and shook my head when his mouth quirked with amusement.

“I'm sorry, I can't even think right now.”

The quirk turned into a full grin and he leaned in set his cheek to mine, to brush his lips against my ear as he murmured in a softer tone than any I imagined he could manage, “You need not apologize for such things. Sentiment is not a luxury many have the freedom to express.”

The music struck up again, and he held a hand out to me, offering a dance. He looked different. Not just the new suit, or the longer length to his hair. Beneath the teasing promises, the pride, and the mischief, I saw need. What he needed I didn't know, but I sure as hell was game for finding out.

I shoved my drink into a bystander's hands and slipped my hand into his. Swept up into the music, into him, the outside world was unnecessary. This was a dangerous man – a god – and a foolish game to play, but we don't always care when the future looks like it may hold mistakes. I can say now that I don't live in fear of maybes. I wanted him. I will always want him.

The hands I imagined tearing my clothes off, pushing into me, gripping my thighs, hips, and wrists, were light as birds on a branch. One at my back, and one holding my free hand. How long he led me around the dance floor, I don't know. Too long and not long enough, around and around. We danced until my need for sweetness was sated and my head was clear.

“Loki,” I said, quiet, for his ears only, and curled my fingers against the back of his neck. “Take me home.”

There were darker corners in his promises I wanted to explore. He held his lips a breath from mine, teasing the banked embers in me to a flickering flame.

“Say my name again,” he whispered.

I matched his teasing grin, and thought of the hands he held me so politely with bruising my hip and back as we fucked against the wall behind the Christmas trees. Said hands twitched in response. I held his gaze, stepping up to the plate so to speak.

“Loki.” I could make his name hold so much more than the adoration he wanted: lust, addiction, fire, completion...

“Again.”

Those hands stopped being gentle. I returned the favor, letting my nails bite.

“ _Loki._ ” My own demand was there. I was playing a dangerous game, but he had left a weapon on the floor for me: an invitation. No doubt he thought he could tug on the strings attached to this sparring weapon whenever he wanted, but strings have two ends.

I don't know how we made it back to my apartment. The how is inconsequential, and the why was burning in my gut too much to care about the how. My brain carved away the unnecessary to better preserve the more important things. I remember the way his knuckles grazed the back of my arms when he helped me out of my coat, but not if he hung it up after. I remember the predatory way he held himself at my back as we stood in the foyer, the way I leaned back into him and his hands steadying me when I removed my shoes, but not where I tossed them.

“Mind helping a girl out?” I asked, and tilted my head back. “We haven't gotten the hang of inventing self-unzipping garments yet.”

The way his mouth curved drew my eyes. I remember the gentle tugging as the zipper made its descent, but not when he pushed the dress away or where it fell. I remember the first time we kissed - his hand moving from my jaw to nest in my hair, to cradle my head and press into the knots of tension - but not how long it lasted. He tasted like wine and warm bread.

“Oh, the things you could do to me...” I sighed into the small space between us, my heart beating wildly. My skin burned where he touched me, and itched with need where he didn't. The strings were being pulled so deftly I hardly cared.

That damnable mouth quirked again and the quiet exhalation of his laugh was hot on my lips.

“Is that not the point of all this?”

The question made me smirk. “Let's find out.”

I turned in his embrace, wrapped my hand in his tie, and pull his mouth to mine again. This kiss was different; I tasted both of our needs, felt the way we wanted to mark the other in desperate, beastly ways. He pulled my hips to his, knocking the bones together, and ran over the soft lace covering my ass. The tie knot came loose quickly in my experienced fingers. Next, the buttons on his waistcoat – oh my King, you know me so well - and the smaller ones of his shirt. When he moved with impatience to help me rid him of his clothes, I caught his wrists and made him stop.

The strings twanged, stretched, vibrated.

Irritation at my impertinence was in his eyes, but there was hunger and curiosity too. I turned his own brand of madness-tinged smirk on him and stepped away. I wanted too look at him, admire my handiwork, the perfect picture he made and I would test every limit to get what I wanted.

“You play with fire,” he warned, watching me take each step back but not moving to catch me. “No, worse. So much worse.”

“Is that not the point of this?” I asked, hiding none of my amusement, but the searing look in his eyes, the small window of skin I could see amongst the rumpled state of his clothes stoked my own hunger. I let him hear that too.

“Loki.”

He removed his suit jacket, making the window wider and the loose ends of his tie swing. His waistcoat was askew, and I hadn't managed to undo all the shirt buttons or to pull it free from his trousers. He worried at his cufflinks and eyed my reaction. A strand of black hair came loose and tickled his cheekbone. My heart nearly stopped.

“You are so easily pleased,” he teased with his voice. With his hands, he goaded me through the simple action of slipping one into a trouser pocket. He stood there, staring me down.

“How much more would it take to make you ready to receive me, I wonder?” he asked. His hands moved again and I couldn't answer, they pulled away the waistcoat, plucked at those damn buttons, and tugged the shirt so fucking slowly from his waistband that I nearly caved.

“How much does this make make you throb?” I did not know that a voice could feel like a touch; his made gooseflesh raise and my nipples suddenly very aware of the stifling fabric covering them.

He left the shirt loose and sauntered towards me, one quiet step at a time. “How much more to make you drip for me?”

“Maybe you should check.” I backed away, keeping time with him, luring him into the bedroom. “Don't tell me that showing off for a receptive audience doesn't turn you on. It makes you wonder what you're doing to me in my head. Or what I'm doing to you.”

The tick of hesitation in his next step told me I was right on the mark. “And what are you doing to me?” he asked, and undid his belt to regain the upper hand. The movement caused the shirt to shift low on one shoulder and my mouth went dry. I could see the wiry strength in his body, the small scars from old wounds, and the view was so much more satisfying than I ever imagined.

“I don't think I've ever wanted to bite someone's hip bone before, so there's that.”

I bumped into the bed, and half crawled back onto it, one leg crouched on the mattress, the other poised on the floor.

He laughed, dragged his eyes over my body, the unobstructed view of my cleavage I so thoughtfully gave him, and paused so close in front of me that I could have kissed his navel if I looked down from his attention. He brushed his thumb over my parted lips, felt my deep breathing.

“You look like a kitten ready to pounce.”

I smiled. “That's the idea.”

In one swift motion, I grabbed the back of his shirt, pulled, and effectively trapped his arms behind him. My free hand shamelessly smoothed over his stomach, feeling every muscle twitch, all the way up to rest over his heart. It thumped, strong and fast.

The strings were stretched so taut I could hear the fibers screaming.

“You mean to render me powerless?” he asked with amusement, and under the touch of my lips to his chest I could feel it reverberate. “You forget. I am a god.”

“Oh, no. I didn't forget. That's all part of the fun, remember?” I told him, and untangled one of his hands. With a firm hold, I guided him to my hip, past the delicate barrier of lace, and to the wet core of me.

This was my opportunity to whisper something maddening in his ear. “You are my god, my King, and it is your right to take me. I want you to claim me, Loki.”

The shirt restricting him disappeared in a flash of green, and I found myself at his mercy – the sudden grip on my hair pinched my scalp and added to the slickness between my legs. The fingers there were greedy in the way they spread and rubbed the evidence of barely contained arousal into me. The sticky wet sound was enough to kick my heart rate up a notch, but then he slid two of those finely-shaped fingers into me and there didn't seem to be enough air to go around.

“Let us see how worthy you really are to bear that mark.”

He pulled my head back, admired the motion of my breasts heaving and the slack-jawed look on my face. When my hips rocked against his hand, he changed approach and stroked the spot inside that made me gasp and whine. The fingers abandoned their leisurely exploration and started thrusting in earnest. I could only stabilize myself with my own fierce hold on his waist. Well, no, that was not the only thing I could do. I was still a player in this game no matter how effectively he could distract me.

That span of flesh just under hips and waistband was awfully sensitive, I discovered. The challenge in his eyes and picked-up pace of his finger-fucking spurred me on. While I rode his hand, the closure of his slacks were done away with and I finally had full access to him. He was thick at the base and long in his hardness. My inner muscles squeezed his fingers while thoughts of him filling me let a needy moan slip. His skin was an attractive shade of cream and felt no less smooth and twitchy than my own when I needed release, but the hot and silky feel of his shaft made me pull against the restraint inflicted on me. I could live with a patch of hair being ripped out, but the need he inspired in me was powerful.

“I want to suck you until you're drier than a desert,” I heard myself growl.

That earned me a throb and bead of pre-cum to work with. From the way a stuttered breath and quiet grunt escaped him while my hand worked the head, I was definitely chipping away at that tightly guarded self-control. Neither of us planned on giving in first.

“All in due time, my dear pet,” he murmured, lips brushing against mine. The conflicting desires of not wanting to give in, but wanting to taste each other had our mouths playing a thrilling game of keep away. I managed a brush of my tongue against his lip, but was countered by an assault on my g-spot. Damn, dirty tactics. Then again, what else had I expected? The gentle palming of his sac caught him off guard, but the real retaliation was the full caress of shaft – I'm very good with my hands. Just the right rhythm and timing of the wrist turn had his breathing caught him up to mine. The way he leaked the more I stopped holding back my (very) vocal appreciation of his ministrations was also a happy discovery.

There was a groan when I took my hand away, but the intensity with which he eye-fucked me when I sucked my sticky fingers like a delicious appetizer almost made me beg him to tear me apart and leave nothing left to mourn the inevitable loss of him with the morning light. He withdrew his own digits from me and kept those soul-boring eyes locked on me as his tongue caught a stray drip running down his wrist.

The warm air of the apartment teased at the wetness coating my thighs and hot, blood-swollen cunt. The sharp flavor of him invaded and took hold in my senses. The memory escapes me of when I took hold of the back of his head and wrenched him forward to both drown and draw energy from his rough mouth-handling.

I don't count that small cave in of my resolve as more than a small point reduction in the grand scheme of things. He could have killed me for pulling at his hair as hard as he did mine. Instead, the remnants of our clothing ceased to exist. I ended up with my back against the bed and his glorious nakedness pressed to mine. Hard cock rocked against clit, lips bruised lips. My hands mapped the broad, shifting landscape of his shoulders and back. He claimed my neck with harsh nips and was no less kind to my breasts. The shocks of pain in contrast with the gentle way his hands smoothed down my knees, easing the hold on his waist by tense thighs to open me, fanned the fire higher.

My right hip bone would sport beautiful marks left by his hand, the way he lifted, pulled, and held on. That first breach, the brutality of our bodies joining amidst white-hot pleasure, would forever change the meaning of the phrase “Fuck me.”

“LOKI!”

Screaming his name tied us on the scoreboard, yet we were quickly leaving the importance of the game behind. His tongue faltered in its dance with my nipple; I felt the breath of his moan. The reward of his hips snapping against the desperate rolling of my own forced me to grip the head board for support, an anchor to a world not consumed by the electric feeling of every inch of his skin pressing against mine. The heady smell of him, the sweat I lapped from his neck, the power in his arms when he lifted my body from the bed and held me tight blasted everything from my mind.

We moved together like one machine. His thighs underpinned mine in a wide stance, and my ankles interlocked at the small of his back. I braced myself with a hold around his neck. One arm locked around my waist, a hand smoothed over my ass and we both enjoyed the unapologetic groping. The new angle and effects of gravity paired with his punishing thrusts had me seeing stars. My muscles strained with the effort of not letting the rising tide crest too soon, but the slide of his cock and pressure of pubic bone on my clit was becoming to much to resist. My short nails tore at his back and I used the strength of his support to ride him as hard as he fucked. The volume of his groans betrayed the effect my wild abandon had on his control.

Hearing the satisfaction in his pleasure was the kick that sent me over. That sweet, core-shaking release was like a river bursting forth through a dam and decimating everything; there was nothing left of me to keep from him. All my cries and needs were his to feed on. He took everything I gave and drew out the waves of that river until it met his own. The unguarded, pleasure-pained look on his face when he came was awe-inspiring.

Each pulse inside me caused my own reflexive spasm and a thrill reminiscent of the release. They shot through me like a water ripple lapping at a beach. I couldn't stop shivering, or touching him. My hands roamed his shoulders, his heaving chest, combed through his hair. My thumbs followed he sharp line of cheekbones, and my forehead pressed to his; I felt raw and hollowed out. In his eyes I saw curiosity and wonder amidst the energy drained from him. In his kiss I tasted approval, and something dark and seductive that I delved for in every crevice.

He settled us down to the bed with care and cleaned me with a gentle hand. All I remember from there on is the warmth and slow slip into nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah, chapter two! Hope you enjoyed it. :) Only one more left!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I had briefly wondered if our current position could be considered compromising, but he clearly had the advantage. The anticipation was sweet, as such things tend to be, but also not enough. So I gave up the truth._

My consciousness returned just as the first rays of morning light tinted the world in the grey slate color of Winter. I felt nothing of the usual pre-coffee drowsiness, though there was plenty of soreness. The motion of my bedmate in the large decorative mirror across the room caught my attention. As I took stock of what the heavy weight around my ribs and tucked between my breasts was, I recalled the events of the previous night in detail. Several times. When the morning became more insistent, along with the presence held against my backside, his lips and nose nuzzled the back of my neck in half sleep. I admired the features of his face unlined by worldly cares. He appeared to have slept as deep and well as myself. For that, and the fact of his presence still in my bed at all, I was glad.

“You hold your breath as if I will blow away in the sigh of it.”

I hadn't realized. The tickle of his lips and sleep-mussed voice made me smile and let out the sigh he thought me frightened of.

“I didn't really know what to expect the morning after.”

The eye I could see in the reflection opened in a squint against the light and stared back. “And now?” he asked. “What expectations do you hold?”

“None,” I answered with honesty and let a smirk take root and grow. “I would never presume anything of my King.”

The pleased rumble in his chest made my own tingle from the reverberation. “How you manage to be both sincere and impertinent in your proclamations is maddening.”

I hooked my leg over his and pressed back against him. “Just the right sort of maddening.”

“Mmm.” The lazy caress from breast to rib, and side to flank was agreeable. “You are not wrong.”

The touches exploring the expanses of skin forgone the night before placated me until the question in my mind forced its way out.

“Why did you stay?”

That tooth-baring grin and laugh sent tremors through the bed. His explorations went unhindered, and were particularly interested in the softness of my inner thighs. The pads of his fingers traced the mark that claimed me as his.

“Why do mortals insist upon knowing everything?” he countered, and began rubbing the length of himself against my folds. “Why did you call the enemy of this planet to your bed?”

I stroked the tip of his cock, and teased myself at the same time. “I've always had questionable morals and a selfish heart,” I answered with a grin. “The addiction to attractive men in tailored suits might have something to do with it as well.”

He strummed the hardened peaks of my breasts and lightly traced lines over my neck with his tongue. “Flattering, but not the whole truth. Why did you give yourself to me?”

“Not fair, you haven't answered my question yet.” The sudden, sharp pinch I was paid made me hiss.

“I wanted my scarf back.”

“Liar.”

“Fairness and truth must be taken.” The dark chuckle hinted at sinful things. “You have little chance of forcing an answer, but if you please me I may just grant you one.”

My arm reached around for a handful of well-toned ass, accompanied by a head turned just enough to district those lips with my own for a slow and thoroughly pleasing kiss. Treating his mouth like a complex wine, something to be savored and held on the tongue to discern all the flavors, was just as good as any intense plundering session.

Breaking for breath, I challenged him with the the cheeky self-confidence he seemed unable to draw away from. “I think I can manage that.”

A firm hold held my hip in place while the head of his cock pressed against my entrance, but he did not breach me. “And your answer?”

He wasn't wrong about mortals needing to know everything. In reality that need is just a distraction from spilling our own guarded truths, the things we don't want to admit out loud. I had briefly wondered if our current position could be considered compromising, but he clearly had the advantage. The anticipation was sweet, as such things tend to be, but also not enough. So I gave up the truth.

“Why wouldn't I want to have a go with a god?” This amused and pleased him greatly; I continued. “That was the fantasy, at first, to get me through the day. To give me another reason to do what I wanted to feel that thrill.”

I was rewarded with the slow ease of his head; gently, he worked just that much in and out. “And now?”

“Now,” I paused and let out a shuddering breath. “Now I know the difference between fantasy and reality.”

He thrust a little deeper. “You are a slave to your own desire.”

I licked the dryness from my lips and nodded. “Yes.”

“And I am that desire.”

The depth increased until each slow stroke brought him flush against me.

He grazed the aroused, blood-flushed electric spot. “Yes,” I hissed.

We moved together, the pace measured and savored in the precious moments of unclouded morning sunshine. Fantasy was a pale and cheap imitation to the reality of our affair.

“Ah, Loki...”

A purr emanated from his chest. His lips moved against the shell of my ear with every sultry murmur.

“You moan my name well,” he complemented. “Such pleasure has not been attached to it for far too long. That is why I stayed.”

How could I not give him what he wanted after such a confession? His name was my new favorite prayer and curse, and fell from my lips with every easy undulation.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded. “See how you writhe for me, the gleam of your need coating me when I pull from your greedy body, the lustful shape of your mouth – see what I claim for my own.”

I forced my eyes to open and clenched around him as I used the mirror to see the picture I presented. He made me into a physical embodiment of a man's wet dream, skin flushed and body open, eyes heavy with carnal need and the freedom of enjoyment, lips plump and pink with blood; I moved with him, arched against him and opened myself further. Yet I was nothing compared to the sex-mussed state of his dark hair, the fervor of his eyes boring into mine, and relief of lean muscle surfacing with each instance of tension. My fingers slid into the temptation of his soft locks.

Together, we made the perfect tableau of debauchery.

His breath was hot on my neck. “Speak it again. Softly.”

The slow burning became a fire the more I watched. The thickness of him made the mouth of my cunt stretch and clasp. Every roll of the hip was the best sort of torture, a fluid motion in the beautiful dance we shared.

I whispered his name, my heart full of the affections he filled it with, the sweet pain of riding the edge.

“Yes,” he sighed, hitching on the quiet moan that followed.

The culmination of our intensity came on softly, but no less powerful than the night before. The quiet, desperate noises we made barely stirred the dust motes, but his body shivered against mine. All sense was lost and had to be coaxed to return. We basked in the perfect stillness of the mind we had created in the other until he was soft enough to slip from me. I shifted in his embrace to face him, and for a while we exchanged gentle touches.

I don't think either of us knew what the thing between us would bring, but that hadn't bothered me before. It still doesn't. We simply are. No expectations works surprisingly well.

At the time, I sat up carefully, thinking the dreamlike state that wrapped my apartment in cozy afterglow might shatter if I moved wrong. Like the snow falling silently outside the window, I believed it was impermanent and he might disappear completely without a trace left behind. Those thoughts were swept away when he pulled me down and kissed me, closed-mouthed but pliant.

“Breakfast?” I asked, the only word my brain could produce.

He smiled and inclined his head in agreement. As good a start to a day as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than the others, but just as satisfying I hope. Thank you for reading!


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